Good King Wenceslav looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep, and crisp and even;
Brightly shone the moon that night,
Tho’ the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gath’ring winter fuel.
Hither, page, and stand by me,
If thou know’st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
“Sire he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain;
Right against the forest fence,
By St. Agnes’ fountain”.
“Bring me flesh and bring me wine,
Bring me pine-logs, hither;
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear them thither”.
Page and monarch forth they went,
Forth they went together.
Thro’ the rude wind’s wild lament,
And the bitter weather.
“Sire the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart I know not how,
I can go no longer”.
“Mark my foot-steps, my good page,
Tread thou in them boldly;
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.
In his master’s steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod,
Which the saint had printed;
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
Shall yourselves find blessing.